


Covenant

by Sing



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M, Halloween, Ichabbiehalloween, Lore - Freeform, Romance, Spooky, Supernatural - Freeform, Witchcraft, lord please forgive me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-11 06:54:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16470866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sing/pseuds/Sing
Summary: In the town of Sleepy Hollow.Witches were born. A path paved of treachery, blood and secrets.A great war, felled by a great sleep.Now every year on the Awakening, a week before Halloween, more of the old rises to meet with the knew, in whom the spark of magic is freshly kindled.But while quarrels and ambition slumbered centuries ago, they may still awaken afresh.The bell has rung and Abbie has been Awakened, on this day too, will some sleeping witches rise.By the end of the week, on Halloween, Abbie must decide if she will choose to join the Coven and give into her heritage of witch blood, or remain mortal, and turn her back on magic forever.And freshly risen Ichabod Crane, would happily aid her in making the decision.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thymelady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thymelady/gifts), [Sweetiedee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sweetiedee/gifts), [irishlullaby13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irishlullaby13/gifts).



> Comments are fuel and love! please and thank you! 
> 
>  
> 
> I do not own Sleepy Hollow

Faded green and black leaves, weep over the manor. The blades of grass whisper and rustle, hissing their secrets on the manicured, well behaved lawn. They grow with the tender care and nurturing of capable dark hands. Hands that toil and sweat and bleed under beating heat of a sun blazing high above in an unforgivingly bright, hopeful blue sky.

They work the land, they pick the white fluffed blooms that are the turn a profit on their blood sweat and tears but never to taste these fruits of labor on their own.

They get by.

They pray, cry and weep, welted, beaten, bloody.

They hunger and burn, deep down in their bones, in their blood,for freedom.

And some others, for power.

* * *

 

Past

A cave that is cold and glacial, no matter what time of year. Charles Dixon stalks in here, curious. He's been wanting to expand his property out this way. He runs this township. He has all the clout, all the power, and recognized by his peers as their pioneer. The one who has seen them all in higher fortunes for his enterprising. For his cunning. He married and got three pretty children back home at the main house. A full house of servants. From light caramel to darkest pitch. Work his lands. Tend his stock. Clean his house. Mind the children. Obey the wife, that is liberal with her hands. Let's them fly easy at the slightest sign of disrespect. She _**loves**_ to hit and punish. 

Spatters blood on the freshly painted walls.

Shatters the dinnerware when displeased.

She's a spoiled brat, and heiress that helped Charles secure the funds he'd needed to travel out. She doesn't forget to remind him, that everything he has now, is possible because of her. Her money, her wealth. He reminds her though, that she's too insipid and stupid to manage it on her own. But only after they had been wed. Only after he had sweet talked her to sign everything over into his name and he swore with all his heart to protect her and their fortunes and the children they brought into the world.

She hungered for power so but had no mind how to wield it. Had no smarts. She was eager to be taken care of, under his protection. So he married Elizabeth Avery, busty, wicked, cruel, girl. A means to an end, nothing more.

But he's got it all now, and like all men do, is greedy, insatiable, ventures out to see how much more of the earth can claim. Bend and break to his will.

The trickle of the spring called to him. The rush of water tinkling like a song as he walked into the trees. Brow furrowing upon sight of the cave, strode down into it. Hand at his hip, prepared to draw if necessary.

The closer he drew he swore he heard within the burble of the water a murmur of words, coaxing him, enchanting.

'Come and taste, come and see' it tempted. 'Come and drink from the vitality of the earth'

Warily, he'd looked around before sidestepping down into the cave, staggering and slipping on a rock until he was at the based of what appeared to be a fountain and saw the glimmering blue green strange water. Too bright, too beautiful and pure and untouched.

Unsullied.

Undiscovered.

And he found himself thirsty, and dropping to his knees greedily drank and drank until he choked and felt the chill of the water rushing through his limbs, jolting in his bloody and turning, changing him. He blacked out, and when he came too, it was night.

He walked out beneath the moon and felt the world shift into brighter focus among the darkness. Could hear things he shouldn't be able to before. The heartbeat of a rabbit. The slither of a slug beneath the autumn leaves.

He felt the earth heaving beneath his feet, the pulse of the creatures that dwelled in the dirt and the denizens that roved among the forest. And further, he could hear the clink and clang of the pots being put away in the kitchen.

Further, the lilting, panting cry, a sweet voice, morphed and warped in the throes of passion that he recognized held a sort of vitality it never had with him. The moans of his wife, breathing another mans name raggedly into the air where he moved above her.

_Oliver_

_**Oh,** **Oliver**_

_Yes_

**_Yes_ **

In his ears the sounds cascaded and clamoured, coming at him from every corner. The harried rustle of fabrics as she dressed. Oliver's urgings that she stay.

Her protests.

The clatter of the carriage, speeding towards his estate. The slap she delivered to the maid she collided with in the door.

Her shocked cry as the tea service dropped and hot water pooled on the floor.

_You wretched bitch!_

Elizabeth cursed.

_You useless speck of **dirt**_

Awake now, Charles fought to gather his bearings and struggled through the trees, wrestling his way back home. Rage burning through him. The ungrateful wife. His pride, his reputation. She dared to mock him with an affair---to make him a laughing stock. There was no love between himself and Elizabeth, but to think he would easily be made a fool of, and then more sounds filled his ears. Sounds of the future.

Distant, half garbled but wheedling into his ear all the same.

His wife, again, breathing laboured and moments later a triumphant shout---his own, he seethes, his own future, disbelieving future self, revelling----the cry of a new born. Their exhausted wail.

 _My boy,_ his voice cries, touched. It would be  his first son, were it his.

As he draws nearer to the house the further his hearing seems to go, delving into months to come.

 _He doesn't look a **wit** like you Charles_ , a voice cajoles.

Elizabeths trilling laugh in response.

The manor comes into view, looming in the night, lights blazing in the windows, he hurries, storming up the front steps and stumbles upon the maid wiping up the floor. The dark bruise taking form on her cheek.

She glares up at him, it's but a flash of hatred and he draws back his hand to deliver another blow for the insolence of looking at him as though he were something that disgusting, as though he were one of her kind---- but a mad chorus of cackling besets him, this new power now having gone wayward in his lost focus, the cacophony addles him, lancing apain through his skull and he withdraws instead, a hand pressed to his forehead and grumbles out an order for medicine and tea, staggering up the stairs.

When he's gone she raises a brow at his retreating back, edging away back into the kitchens as she hears a row brewing upstairs.

"Where are you coming from at this time of night?"

"Charles, I don't know what you're talking about----"

"You only moments ago returned to this house----"

"You must be delusional----"

In the doorway, the maid listens to the sound of sharp blows, and a piteous whimper.

Only moments before she had been on the receiving end of an assault. How quickly karma deals with those who wrong others.

A small smile twitches the corner of her lips and she winces but goes about her business.

*

Days gave way to weeks, and then months.

People steered clear of Charles Dixon.

They'd call him nosey, a gossip, if he wore a friendly, or even a drunken face. They'd say he'd begun to employ spies, if they believed him capable of trusting anyone.

Charles Dixon knew, everything. Every hushed whisper, every secret, unfurled into quiet confidences, he knew. Every deal struck. Every argument that brewed at the tavern. Every bet, threat, promise and proclamation made, Charles knew about it. If you spoke it out loud, unabashed and unguarded thinking no one could hear, no one could know-----you were mistaken, and now, having heard you voice, having latched onto your words, desires and hopes, he had imprinted upon you, and could listen in on your future.

His friends turned easily on one another, because Charles could convey what one was whispering behind another's back. Partnerships soured. Grudges took hold.

Discord was sown, through Sleepy Hollow.

They dared not trust each other, and they gave Charles a wide berth, fearful what private murmurings he would air out or turn against them----but they knew if there was something they wanted to know, Charles could provide them with answers.

No one understood the sudden change that had come over Charles, those who murmured to find out days later would find themselves in fatal quarrel with a drunk, or even a peer, driven into blind rage over some dark truth come to light.

He who can find all of their secrets, knew well how to hide his own.

*

Charles could hear plotting and plans and even futures. But he could not read minds, could not hear thoughts, nor hearts.

Few caught on to this.

But one maid, did.

She kept her plotting and secrets to herself, sneaking out one night, following where he went. And when he had drunk his fill from the spring, she steeled herself and went after he had gone, desperately hoping and making a plea for change.

Let it grant her power. Let it make her strong.

She had been drinking from the spring for some months, watching as his wife Elizabeth's belly began to grow. The spring had gifted her a power of change, alright. A commander of time. To go forward, backward, to see into distances. She was smarter, stronger, than Charles.

And on the night that Elizabeth went into town, seven and a half months along under pretence of visiting with her cousin, that the maidhad held Charles at knife point and made her demands.

He threatened her, very by the script in his outrage, but impressed with her daring.

She cooed in his ear that she too, had magic, stronger than his, greater, and if he did not heed her demands, she would reveal him to the townspeople, and then she would share the springs abundant power with every citizen, high born and low, indentured and free, and he would no longer be special, nor feared, but reviled, and easy pickings for all of the rivals he and adversaries he will have made. Not to mention, a laughing stock because of Elizabeth and her lover. If he didn't comply, she promised to ruin him. To destroy everything.

"Vengeance, I hear," she entreated, her lips brushing against his ear, the blade levelled at his throat, "is sweet, to taste. You have thought yourself clever and wise, and made lives very sour, Charles Dixon, they will hunger for a new flavour on their tongue."

He'd barked a laugh and she had nicked him, a trickle of blood beading up and sliding down his skin.

"There is more, where that came from," she promises.

"Your demands,"

"Make me woman of the house. Give me children. Free myself, and mine, my brothers and sisters who labor for you.And I will be faithful, unlike your wretched bitch of a wife," she spat. Charles chuckled at that, agreeing. He still hears Elizabth cavorting around with Oliver Parish, be it his magic or merely that the sounds of her pleasure and his supposed friends are seared in his mind is unclear.

"And I will steer you into the brightest future."

He'd sneered, his eyes flicking over Grace's form. She had a better figure than Elizabeth, certainly. More clever, more biting, more of an intellectual match he wagered. And he couldn't stand the thought of being laughed at. He'd started hearing the whispers and suspicions that they were both playing him for a fool.

Someone had uttered Elizabeth would do just as well to kill him and remarry Parish.

He'd seen red.

Oliver Parish? and his bastard son? inherit all he had worked for? Treacherous stupid, self serving and self seeking Elizabeth a life of comfort as reward for her infidelity?

And then of course, losing his singular grip on power to the masses, sickened him. Deeply. 

"Is that all?" he'd queried, daring to reach to stroke her cheek. She'd dodged away instead, disdainful and fire in her eyes. He chuckled darkly, amused. All that bite and still skittish of him. "What is your name,"

"Grace," she grinds out.

He wipes absently at the blood on his neck, smearing it down his shirt to clean his hands.

"It shall be done, my dear. You will be Grace Dixon, before this year is out."

*

By the end of the year, Elizabeth had given birth to a healthy boy whom she named Henry, and Charles denied him.

The truth was in the babes face, and Grace had already looked into the future to see it.

By the end of the year, Elizabeth had hung her self from one of the bowing trees in the front yard.

Charles would declare that his wife had been morose since the babe was born.

At the funeral he had shed no tears, but locked eyes with Grace, across the grave.

She'd begged him to spare the child, he'd intended to drown Oliver's son, too, he'd already talked Oliver around into getting murdered the week before. Be rid of the child, and have the whole despicable lot of them, and their seed, too. But Grace had stayed his hand.

"Are you a monster, or a man."

"I hexed my wife and drove her to seek her own grave, Gracie dear, you tell me."

She'd made a tutting noise at him and bounced baby Henry in her arms. "That man that courted me was a monster, but as my husband, you will be man. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You've got a lot of nerve Grace you're getting-----"

"Above, my station?" she glared and in her eyes he saw the seasons change and the ravages of time. He swallowed, perhaps beginning to understand for the first time, that he had underestimated just how much of a danger she posed to him.

"Never, Gracie love," he amended. "Never."

She levelled him with an assessing gaze and absently twiddled the ring on her finger. "We will keep Henry," she announced. "I'm sure he will grow up to be useful to us. Won't you, you grubby little worm," she laughed. Henry gave her a toothy grin.

Sighing, Grace looked out at the empty fields,where no more hands worked. At the tree where they had cut down Elizabeth. "I want a swing there," she said, turning her back to head inside, briefly a touching a hand to her belly."For our children. See it done."

* * *

 

October 2018

The bell tolls it's keening knell, it's summons.

Those who have forgotten heir heritage, of an age now, are called, and if they so choose, may tap into it. Their eyes glow the eerie silver of those who trifle with powers beyond and greater than the veil.

It's Awakening day.

Every year, in the town of Sleepy Hollow, a week before Halloween, the bell is rung, and a generation of witches is summoned, given the choice between their supernatural powers and mere mortality. On Halloween night, should they choose to embrace that which thrums in their veins, they commend themselves into the Coven, a slumbering network of witches that date back several centuries, and cosign themselves to the promises and expectations of this new supernatural line of family.

If they rebuke it, should they turn away from the magic that has been passed down from the spring to their bloodline, the power will evaporate, it will leave them, dwindling away, day by day, until not an ounce of magic remains. However, If they were doubtful in their decision, the following year when Awakening day rolls around once more, they may take a chance on the pledge.

But Covenants are tricky, spiteful things, and there is every chance that the ritual will kill the faint of heart for not fully trusting in their power. The Covenant does not always believe in second chances.

For those who have already given themselves over, declared themselves workers of magic, and embraced the wonder and mystery of things not born of the earth, Awakening day serves another purpose too.

Very literally, it wakes those who have slumbered for the past few hundred years, waiting to come forward. Caverns and caves, crypts and graves, depending on how dramatic the families inclination had been, rock and split, the earth crumbling away, and all those who heard the bell will help them out of the ground and reacclimatize them to the bright world.

It is such a day.

Today, the bell rung.

It's sweet, booming, resounding timbre, a song that called to the blood of Grace Abigail Mills, the youngest, the last, of her line. She at oncefelt the lightening zip of magic singing in her blood, her vision had gone white and starry and she was driven out into the streets, joining the crowd of those answering the call. Among them are a few of her friends. Some freshly beckoned by the bell, some, years on in their choice. Her mother, is such a one. 

Lorelei, 'Lori' Millsgrabbed her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders and hurried out into the street behind them, rapping sharply on her neighbours door. "August" she pounds. "August wake up, only you could sleep through Awakening."

"It is too damnably early." he grouches, though his black jacket and pressed pants suggest he'd been up and dressed to go. Lori sweeps her gaze over him, amused. She fusses with her skirts and slips her arm through his.

"How is come every haunting season your skin grows smoother than the year before and I crease like wax paper."

Lori's robust laugh is all the response he'll receive, they amble along, following the throng as the bell gongs louder.

On this day, as with every year before and after it, a heavy fog permeates the town. It cloaks the witches and warlocks and others, afflicted by magic blood, shrouds them in its damp embrace, and conceals the converging masses of them from the eyes of those who shunned the magic, and the humans that have unwontedly wandered to settle into their town.

The mob presses on in a mix of haunted silence and chatter.

The Awakened drift along in a stupor, leading the way.

The spell of the bell is that those who are about to rise, full the pull to the earth strongest from those just emerging into the witching world. Their kind call to one another, in a way.

It's a day equal parts foreboding and excitement for them. For some, it means the return of relatives long lost to slumber, brought back anew to experience  how the world has changed.

For others, it revives those with whom they held grudges in the past. The threat of bad blood burbles beneath the surface here in this town. They are all beholden to the promises their ancestors made, yet the temptation to break ancient oaths has not lost its appeal.

Down down down to the river bank. The crunch of leaves under foot and the water burbles. The cave that began it all is just beyond here, that which holds the enchanted spring, so they are told, but the Mother of Witches had hid it's entrance to prevent greed.

They all pause on the bank watching the river roil as the caskets bob to the surface. Old slated wood, wrapped around several times with chains. It creaks and rocks as it sails toward the shore.

Abbie steps forward, palms outstretched as the other summoned witches do, eyes still a glow, a murmur stirring the leaves and their cloaks. As the chant ripples among them, it stretches farther back into the crowd and crescendoes into a shout, abruptly flashing out into thick silence.

They wait.

And wait. Stock still.

A thump, a thud, scratching pounding.

A gasp of air, as a pale hand scratches and claws out of the casket, searching for the chains and locks and gripping them tight whispers the incantation only she knows so that they fall away and she rises, wet hair drying quickly in a fiery wild mane, pale, blue chilled skin filling with colour. Grey eyes flooding green. She hoists her damp skirts, still whispering to herself a scratching crawling murmur that makes their scalps all itch and back away a pace, giving her room as she shakes herself out.

Further along the bank another casket sails in and with less finesse but all the savagery a hand punches through splintering the boards and with a roar, rears up and grins wickedly at the gathering. He wears a red coat and blond hair cascades down around his shoulders.

Lori near the back feels her knees weaken. She'd read about the guardians in her ancestors journal, they should only wake if danger rises with them----another groan as a pile of leaves caves in and from within the whole emerges a man, weathered and grey, spectacles glinting with slivers of morning light, a haunting curling smile that cuts through even the fog. Both, Lori thinks worriedly, both guardians, but for what cause----

A final casket, this one wrapped in vines stuck down the way wracks impatiently. The woman who woke first hustles towards it but it is Abbie, still in the throes of the summons that sails towards it and kneeling, presses a hand to the wood. Her eyes close and the box goes still. A warmth fills her hand, as if being touched from the other side. The wood crumbles beneath her fingertips, withering away into splinters and dust and she finds herhand flush against another palm.

At the touch of skin on hers, her vision clears and her mind is freed from the bells thrall. The rest of the casket rots away as the man straightens and emerges from it, clambering onto the bank.

He is six foot one. Dark brown and gold locks hang down past his ears. His eyes a piercing blue. Like the edge of a flame. Like the ice of a glacier. Something sharp and keen and deadly. Tantalizing in the way forbidden things often are. His sodden and soaked coat dries to a crisp and he turns his gaze on the assembly.

One by one the silver glow fades from Awakened eyes and they move tentatively toward those who've risen.

Lori steels herself beside August as the two men approach, both carrying with them an air of darkness. Some part of their nature that has fortified them for war. But what wars, Lori thinks frantically. The witching wars have long ceased, this whole process was for the purpose of that. There is to be no more struggling and fighting for power. Then why did they rise?

"Abraham Van Brunt,"

"And Henry Parish," the elder man grins. He bobs his head in a vow. "At your service."

At the edge, the red haired woman makes her way to where Abbie stands, feeling uneasy on her feet. Overwhelmed.

"Ichabod, leave it to you to make your Awakening clumsy."

His eyes flash in her direction. "Not all of us have the same flair for the dramatic, Katrina," he hisses.

Her eyes narrow at him but a moment before she turns on Abbie and inhales sharply. Her very being hums with it, with her, the sage and graceful baring, even on her young face, is reminiscent of Mother. She wreaks of the cunning and seduction their Queen had employed, thousands of moons by gone. Katrina tosses her head and glances around at the rest of their kind milling about now. Some now chattering excitedly about discovering their powers and what decision they will have made by Halloween night. But the young woman stays here.

"Katrina Van Tassle-Crane." she introduces herself, holding her head high and smiles a little at the other woman's height. Perhaps I am mistaken, she muses. This nymph like creature, descendant of the Mother herself? In spite of the smell of the magic that rushes through her, Abbie's face is sweet and open, beautiful. She is clear eyed, where Mother's eyes had been sharp and dark.

She does not feel her heart beat quicken with nerves to look upon the young witch, the way she had when the Mother would turn her reckoning eyes on her. Peeling back layer by layer of her potential in a single glance. 

"Grace," the woman answers. And Katrina's sense of relief proves fleeting."Grace Abigail Mills, call me Abbie."

"A name of such good tidings, for a nature so inherently wicked." The man cajoles, taking Abbie's hand gently and lifting it to his lips. His brows arch in an invitation of mischief.

Abbie feels her self flush. "I'm---I only just….the bell." Stop stuttering she admonishes herself. You never stutter.

"It will pass." he whispers, a feeling of assurance washes over her that distantly she knows she dislikes. A Charmer then, she supposes."The unhinged, floating, electric feeling. It will settle. Tell me, Abbie, what is this song, that you sing to me."

She pulls her hand away, wary. "I'm not singing……"

"No, but something within you is," he insists, a wolfish hunger burns in his eyes a second before it rolls back. He looks at her like a puzzle he means to solve, and if he cannot, then he will destroy it. "Forgive me, Katrina, love, why do you not remind me of my manners?"

Katrina scoffs. "You of the infallible memory? Need to be reminded? I should hold this moment for posterity." She turns her back on them. "I'm going to go and see about a house, since you're _clearly_ still sleep addled," she snaps, glaring at him and then grinding to a halt at the small gathering on the edge of the wood.

Henry. Abraham.

Nervously she begins whispering, gripping her skirts and exhales relief as she walks past and they pay her no mind. Out on the street she releases the fabric and flashes back into visibility. She mutters a bitter thanks to the Seamstress for the cloaking properties of garments and scurries on into town. She'll want to claim a good house for her and her husband.

They have a lot of work to do.

They'd watched her go, Abbie stifling a gasp of surprise when Katrina suddenly vanished, only to reappear in he distance. "Clever Betsy," he murmurs, though it seems less of a compliment and more like a curse. He turns his gaze back on Abbie.

"You smell so fresh," he sighs. "So much, raw energy within you. Rich family line, I would wager…..I do hope you will make the most of this week, Abigail, and choose wisely. That you will join us. If you need help making the decision, I will gladly oblige you." He releases her hand and gives her a smirk, beginning to stalk off before Abbie calls out, sounding more annoyed than she had intended. 

"I don't know your name."

"Oh Heavens. I'm not usually so forgetful. It must be something about you, Treasure." his smile is kind on surface but promising underneath. Abbie cannot decide what sort of pledge he makes. If it's one she would dare accept. "My name, is Ichabod Crane."

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abbie seeks a quiet place for some meditation.  
> The Cranes settle in to town.   
> Lori and August have a chat with the risen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something is a foot here.

The machine stutters and drops several stitches in rapid succession, hauling and bunching up the fabric. She huffs irritably, barely snatching her hands back in time. That sort of wicked tug only comes when a garment of hers has been activated. She hasn't woven invisibility in an age, so she knows before the door opens who stands in her doorway.

Drawing a breath she withdraws her glasses and sets them in her hair, clasping her hands beneath her chin to greet her guest.

Katrina pauses at sight of her, even though she had suspected to find the Seamstress here still, she's slightly put out to be proven right. It wouldn't have been so bad had she not returned at all.

"Took your sweet time, I see." she quips, tearing her gaze away and looking intently at untangling the swathe of blue.

"I gather you've been here, a while."

"You were told that watery graves are a deeper slumber."

"To be honest, I'd rather hoped to outlast any time that you might be still here, alive," Katrina smiles beatifically.

"Well this must be a pleasant surprise for you then," the woman replies, tone saccharine. "Me still here, alive and kicking."

"Let's be straight to the point." Katrina snaps.

There is a small shift in the air as delicate hands still and she pushes to her full height, looking Katrina dead in the eyes. "Recall the year, Katrina Crane. You hold no sway to command anyone here."

"Miss, Ross."

"Betsy," she corrects. "Now." a steel edge creeps into her tone. "Freshly risen, haven't even seen to your house yet, I'd bet. So what do you want, here."

"Against my will, I am fond of your work. I only wish to know, if I may count on you." she says evenly.

Betsy looks Katrina up and down, a feeling of unease settling in her bones. "What's in it for me."

A toothy grin. "I'll think of something." Katrina quips. "I always do."

* * *

 

After the ceremony everyone heads back into town to carry on their business. Only Abbie goes toward the opposite end of town, toward the old, warded, Manor house. An ancient tree stands there still. In the breeze bobs the old swing. The Manor is over grown with ivy and bushes creeping along the walls and dusty windows. Abbie stays on the perimeters and watches the swing, lifting her head, cocking her ear to the wind to see what she hears, what she feels.

It was no secret to Abbie that the witch potential lurked in her veins. It's just one thing to know, and suspect, and have this day looming over you in the distance, to hear the bell keen every year and feel nothing and suddenly, there you are, called. Something that should be suchan innate part of you, now bubbling, crackling, singing, inside you, is alien and strange.

She sits here, at the abandoned weathered house where it all began, and prays that something about being here,a place of origins,  steer her towards her specific gift.

Abbie doesn't think she could commit herself to the Coven if she knows nothing about what she's capable of. It's not that she would actively choose to shun her magic----but she likes to be prepared.

The old tree seems to groan, as if wearied after so many years of standing guard like a sentinel. She wonders what it would tell her, if it could speak. Were it not bound and beholden to spells of protection and silence, preserving, and deterring any and all who approach from venturing onto the property.

There are trees that stand closer to the house, twisted in gnarled masses that if you squint at their trunk, seem to bare the features of screaming, haunted faces.

The rumour is the tree was set as the Guardian. Yes, this one here, looking scenic and lovely, with the rickety swing swaying back and forth.

This is where the Mother of Witches lived, began her work. Her ancestor, Grace Dixon.

"If any part of you lingers here," she sighs, "If you can guide me at all-----"

"It still stands,"

She jumps, whirling around and pinching the bridge of her nose. "Don't sneak up on me."

Ichabod bobs his head. "Apologies."

"Did you follow me here?" she asks, her whole body gone tense.

His eyes glimmer like obsidian, a dark shift that sends shivers rippling down her spine before resuming their prior cool blue. He doesn't answer her question, instead inquisitively strokes his beard, contemplating the house, gaze going far away as if reminiscing.

"Shouldn't you have gone into town to claim?" Abbie asks, turning back around she shakes out her shoulders. "That woman…..is she your wife? Was going to look for a house for you---"

"Katrina is capable." he flaps his hand. "I like to drink in my surroundings before immersing in it. I remember here well." he says, gesturing to the house. "I knew her, you know." he says. Abbie's gaze slides his way. "Grace," he elaborates, "She was the one who put us under."

She steals another glance at him and sucks in a breath, wondering how did he manage to getthis close.She feels distinctly less at ease than she had earlier. If his specialty is Charming he's not using it now. In fact there's a undercurrent of energy flitting through her body that she recognizes instantly as adrenaline, panic.

Fright.

"Why are you doing that," she backs away, her brows knitting in a frown and clenching her fists. He spins on his heel, regarding her calmly.

"Doing what, precious?"

"Don't call me that." Abbie snaps. "Don't ever call me that."

"Ah." he sighs, nodding to himself. "I was right, you prefer treasure,"

"I don't prefer anything from a married man, Mr. Crane."

"Oof." He clutches his heart and staggers, a grin curling his lip. "You wound me, Grace----"

"Abigail" she corrects.

"If my memory serves your earlier insistence was for 'Abbie'"

There's a burn inside her, a warmth that's unpredictable and rushing through her limbs. It could be anything. It could hurt them both. But she wishes to unleash it on Ichabod Crane for his antagonizing. "Abbie, is for friends," she snarls. "And friends don't….make them feel fear for no apparent reason-----"

He arches a brow at her, intrigued. "Fear? Surely, dearest Abigail, that's not my doing, I'm….." he trails off, "Friendly. I'm trying to be, friendly."

"Your definition of friendly gives me the creeps---"

He barks a laugh, amused, a chuckle that dies down quickly as he regains his composure and wipes at a tear from his eye. "Well it can't be coincidence, you're hers aren't you, descended from the Mother, the Queen herself."

"Mr. Crane."

"Ichabod. Please, Abigail, call me, Ichabod. I don't mean any harm, truly. But a nature such as mine, so many years of slumber, it's a little, hyperactive," he grins. "It's merely excited to see some use. I really am sorry if I've caused you discomfort." When he smiles again this time, it's less of the provocative menace that he's so far shown her, and more of a mildly, mildly contrite man. The sort of person that you know would rile you again in a heart beat but will always apologize later.

Somemight call it a loveable quirk. Or an great nuisance.

"What are you then." She fires back, checking over her shoulders to ensure she doesn't trip as she backs away. The strange warmth gutters back to her dismay, but seems to hum still, coiled to spring, if she could only decide on the way she wishes for it to take form."Tell me what your magic is. What does it do."

"I fear, that when I tell you, you'll flee," he entreats in a way that says he doesn't think she will at all. He's teasing her.

"You rose today _Crane_ , but I will put you back under if you _try_ me."

Crane notes the way she says his name with a barbed edge and clasps his hands primly behind his back. "I'm an Amplifier."

"And what does that mean----"

"That I make things, people, feelings, stronger." he purrs. "But this also means, I can sometimes, bend, those same variables, affect things around others."

"So the fear I felt. Were you just trying to mess with me? is that it? Is this a sort of restless risen witch----"

"Warlock." He corrects smoothly.

" _Warlock_ ," she grunts. "Thing? torment the Awakened? For what----"

"There is a reason why the two occasions coincide. Why those shaking off that death like sleep seek the bright glow of those just emerging from their cocoons-----we are people on the cusp. In between." He draws closer, but slowly "we are, meant to guide each other." Abbie stops retreating and so his advance brings him impossibly closer, his clear eyes boring into her own. She tilts her head up to look at him and catches the soft, though smouldering look in his gaze. "Feed one another. Feed off, each other. And to answer your earlier question, if you felt fear, it was your own, made grander."

"You've lost me----"

"A Coven is stronger for the understanding of each innate gift, and role. This period of time bonds old with new, to strengthen us. Think of it like a time for mentorship and skill trade. And yes, in some ways, our spells and conjures, will take after each other. You get some of mine, and I, some of yours----"

"Like a -----"

" _Don't_ , say vampire," his lips twitch and his fingers search for hers, interlocking them slowly but purposefully, anchoring her in a warm, secure grip.  "I apologize for spooking you here. And unwontedly tapping into your feelings of insecurity, and making you feel fright. I came, honestly, to look upon the house, and you happened to be here. I do not, apologize, though, Abigail, for the brief moment of calm you felt when we first met, though you distrusted it," he smiles gently."I could not ever in good conscience claim to regret putting you at ease or feeling comfort. And my offer does stand. This is an exciting, terrifying transitioning time for you," The glittering black flickers in his gaze again, but slowly.

As if he wanted her to see it.

Wants her to know there are deeper, darker sides of him.

A warning? or challenge to draw nearer.

A new feeling floods her now, and Abbie is deeply aware of their proximity, the feel of his hand on hers, a part of her brain tells her to pull away, and so she does, loosening her fingers until his own hold slackens, releasing her. 

"I am offering……." he starts, and then scrunches his eyes tightly together and carries on, "the _wife_ and I would offer…..To help you come into your own. Let us all be good to one another, at least, until Hallow's eve."

Abbie's head is humming, buzzing, thrumming and alive with too much energy. She realizes he might be, consciously or not, addling her thoughts into confusion. "I can't think." she says, flying a hand in a wave. "I……I'll see you around, goodbye….."

He bows his head and calls a parting of his own. "Goodbye, Treasure."

Her cheeks heat as she hurries away.

* * *

 

The house sits on a street like any other. More grand, than he'd have been given to, personally. He supposes something in the architecture calls to the nostalgic nature of his wife, hissing and hissing and whispering, he knows his front door by this, the fact that the property itself hums with her incessant muttering.

He shakes his head ruefully, Katrina is an infamous neurotic caster. Whenever she gets anxious, imbues everything about her with the flitting little syllables of nonsense. It's rather like the devils cousin to speaking in tongues. It sounds nothing like words meant for the holy or divine, and unlike more common practice, there is none that can interpret it. Only the feeling that her murmuring brings on. A feeling of restless ness, anxious, yet excitable energy. He scratches lightly at his scalp, chasing an itch----another side effect of her magic and knocks politely on the door.

It wrenches open and she appears harried and wild eyes before she recognizes him.

"Oh. It's you." she grumps, shuffling quickly away. In here the rush of nattering voices is even louder.

"Greetings to you too, wife. This is quite the….. home….you've chosen for us."

"Could you have done better?" she snaps, irritable. "Maybe if you'd come along instead of----"

If he could grasp any sense of calm or rationale about her he would amplify it but there's only her nervous energy and so. He shakes his head sadly. "I did not intend to quarrel."

"No? Only insult and abandon me---"

"Katrina."

"You could have at least pretended you still gave a damn."

"Katrina," he says calmly, evenly. "Last, warning."

"I'm not afraid of you, Ichabod Cr----- ** _AHHHH!_** "

The whispers lift into a crescendo, warping into a screeching howl that shreds though the annoying whispers and makes Katrina's eyes go vacant black, falling to the ground, paralyzed. He shakes his head. It's the only way that works to quell her episodes when she gets like this. When she comes to, she can't say he didn't warn her. He lifts her prone form into his arms and casts about for a place to rest her. He sets her on a long sofa, folding her arms in and setting a cushion behind her head. As he arranges her he notices colour seeping back into her eyes but she remains very still in the midst of her breakdown.

"When you've settled down, we can talk," he says, straightening to stalk away when her lips finally part to speak.

It's a whisper, but not the magic kind. "Didn't you see them?"

Crane sighs, exasperated. "See who, Katrina,"

"The guardians. They're awake, too."

Pausing, he glances over his shoulder, considering her words. "Say that again."

"Henry, and Abraham." she rasps, lucidity quickly returning to her. "They're _here._ "

* * *

 

They went to August'sCabin, a property he keeps out in the woods for when he wants some peace and quiet---rather than traipse the pair of them home to an already overwhelmed Abbie.

It'll take a day to adjust, Lori knows, if her transition goes anything like hers, Abbie will have a little difficulty with focus and some headaches, most Awakened do, for the first twenty four hours. Compound it with a tingling that lives under your skin---it can be quite an unsettling experience and takes time to get used to. It's an altogether strange transformation, and a immense reason why many individuals have issues adjusting, and opt for mortality at the end of the week instead of cultivating their gifts. Of course, as any parent would, Lori hopes that Abbie will take after her and join. It's a legacy she has always been proud of, even though she'd married Ezra Mills, a man who had preferred the absoluteness of humanity instead of his magic.

If she's being honest she had worried some if Ezra's mortality would have dulled Abbie's calling to their heritage----she was relieved to find it hadn't mademuch of a difference. If there are any other effects, they'll arise later. But for now.

August gets coffee for all of them and sits down in his hand carved wooden chair-----He's a carpenter, quite literally, his particular penchant for earth and wood elements is unrivalled----and fixes the men with a stern frown. Lori can't sit. Much as it pleases her to know Grace's magic is so strong and potent, and yes, to know her chosen loyal followers have risen is, nice, to a degree, Lori specifically recalls that the rise of the guardians is not meant to be a purely social call.

Henryclinks his mug with Abraham before he takes a swig and releases a satisfied sigh, smacking his lips. He's less unnerving now than he had been at the site. Now, an odd sort of doughy cheerfulness settles on him. Lori would almost be inclined to believe he really is just an old man. And yet.

"Well," Abraham chuckles. "Aren't you going to ask how was our trip?"

Henry snickers as Lori and August squirm and shift uncomfortably.

"We mean you know harm, surely you know that. We are here to be of service. You can call me Abe, by the way."

"I'm not afraid of you but I'm not excited to see you," Lori laughs lightly. "After all, I can't imagine why you've come now, to protect us from what?"

The two men exchange a frown.

"Lorelei," Henry clears his throat. "We are not mere sentinels. We are not just protectors……" he exchanges a cautious glance with Abe who now also wears a worried expression.

They don't know.

August coughs as he sets down his mug, folding his arms. "No? then what are you here for then-----"

"We're, warriors." Abe says slowly.

Henry's spectacles flash. " We are here, to fight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's Kat up to?  
> Can Crane be trusted? is he offering to tutor Abbie?  
> The Cranes have....an interesting relationship.......  
> Also.....warriors? for....for what?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An examination of some relationships.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some power play intimate moments in the 'Past' segment. Reader discretion is advised. 
> 
> Grace and Charles are not a romantic pair. There's real venom there, but they have a common goal in that they like power. And Honestly Grace is in control here. She's just biding her time. 
> 
> Ichabod and Katrina are similar, but absolutely lack any attraction.

3.

 _ **"Oooooh**_ , why did you _do_ that, Ichabod. You know how it _hurts_." Katrina whimpers as she sits up, pressing a palm to her forehead. Remorse flickers briefly across his features as he turns out into the hallways, searching for the kitchen. A cup of tea usually sets her right after he's blacked her out like that.

"You know you can't be reasoned with in that state----"

"You're a _bastard._ "

"I rather thought it was my potential for _wickedness_ that drew you to me----"

"Oh, don't start----"

"Was it earnest, Kat? Your raving earlier? were you," he dodges back into the doorway to glower at her. "Were you, jealous? love? Of who? the fledgling?"

Annoyed, she rises from the seat and brushes past him, headed to put the kettle on for herself. He's insufferable when he decides to gloat. "You might have at least pretended," she snaps as she turns the faucet. "After all, our record does show that we're married. You might have acted like it----"

"Now, now, dear Katrina, my green eyed monster, we both agreed that our plans and marriage has always been about what we could create together, not feel, for each other."

Tension sets in along Katrina's shoulders and her grip tightens on the kettle as she sets it on the stove.

"You're very quick to remind me of that aren't you."

"You wanted me for my power, nothing more. And I craved the same, why else burn my friendships to the ground? You said yourself that with a master manipulator at your side, you, _we,_ could be unstoppable."

"Hmmmph. Would you like a cup?"

"I'd love one."

"Of course you would," she rolls her eyes as the kettle begins to boil and turns on him. "Well? Did you find out anything, useful?"

"Hmmm?"

"Don't play stupid, it's hardly believable when you carry on as you do," Katrina seethes. "There must be a reason why you meandered instead of coming straight here, so, did you find out anything?"

"Well what exactly is it you would like to know, Katrina?" he folds his arms and knits his brows, frowning at her. "You're being very possessive. Were this a different era I might have found it charming-----"

"Are we really going to pretend there was ever love, here?"

"There was, once, dear Kat." he chuckles lightly. "Just not a love of each other." His eyes dance with amusement and if he wasn't so astute at turning her own magic against him she might whisper him to madness. She takes a moment to smile blissfully at the thought before she rallies.

"You didn't answer my question. With Henry and Abraham risen it's only a matter of time before they start trying to put a spoke in our wheel, and unlike last time, before that infernal slumber-----"

"She was clever when she thought of that," Crane concedes, thinking back on the master of their Coven. "She saw straight through you."

"Yes, well." The kettle blows a high pitch and she grabs for mugs as she pours the water and hunts among cupboards for tea bags.

"What are those----"

"Tea bags," She shrugs. "Modern convention, I'll go in for leaves this week, Betsy"----she smirks when she catches him shuddering out the corner of her eye, "Will accompany me to get a few essentials." 

"Ahh, old friends, rejoined at last."

Katrina ignores him, bustling over to the table. "Anyway." she says pointedly, meaning to get the conversation back on track. "While Grace could rip through your very soul with a glance, I'm optimistic that no one else has manifested said gift. Or, if they have, that they could be turned to our advantage. I mean to do it properly, this time, Ichabod.A new era, a broader world, ours for the conquering."

"And us, leading the charge."

Her green eyes flash. "Exactly." She eyes him and leans forward, eager. "You were with _her,_ weren't you."

He leans back from the table, ruffled. "I don't know what you mean."

"The _fledgling_ ," she mocks. Her eyes narrow. "Do you want her, is that it"

"Katrina I've just risen and her freshly awakened."

"That means yes. You louse." she grumps. "Well, is she Graces? I could feel it rolling off her in waves."

Crane cants his head to the side thoughtful. He eyes Katrina distrustfully. In the beginning, young, plans freshly plotted, there had been a sort of oneness to their union. A levity. A feeling of being on the same page with no hedging around…..it is not so with her now. Time asleep, and thus time apart, is she merely cranky? he wonders, but he can't help but think that there's something else under the surface of her now. It shouldn't surprise him. Unions do make bleeding over of characteristics more pronounced. If there's a new darkness to her now, it's a reflection of him.

"Well?" she presses.

"There's something about her that certainly feels the same."

"I want you to get to know her."

His eyes glint. "Wife," he taunts. "Are you sure that's what you want? What if, my God, what if I _fall_ for her Katrina? _Whatever_ will you do then?"

Humming to herself an eerie little tune sheleans across the table. "I don't need your heart for my game, Ichabod Crane. Remember that."

* * *

 

Past.

"Gracie,"

"Beg."

He strains on the bed, wanting to reach and touch her. "Gracie you damned enchantress."

"Call me wicked, Charles." She presses, breath ragged. "Call me your ruin and _demise_ embodied. Call me master of you and ruler of your lands."

"Yes. Yes Grace love, all of it."

" _Love_ ," she curls her lip and leans up off of him, she reaches for his belt. "Was it _love_ that delivered lashes to those in out in the fields?" she coaxes, winding it tight around her wrist. "Was it love, that made you wed Elizabeth, heartless wretch----"

"Jealous of a corpse? No, a skeleton by now, Gracie? Just how long have you had eyes on me-----"

" _Never_ " she snaps, and lets the belt fly. He yelps, hissing and bowing. "I have never wanted you, Charles Dixon. Not a day in my life. So tell me was it love, that drove you to her, or just her deep pockets"

"My own greed," he pants, eager to confess. "Any dumb fool would know it."

Grace draws a breath and looks him over sharply. "You dare call me a fool?"

"I'm a betting man, dear, you being here under this roof proves it. I've put a child in your belly and our other one sleeping next to my dear widows babe. I've bet everything for you."

"Me?" Grace coos, sauntering closer. "Do not speak as if you have done me or mine favours."

"Witch," he hisses with all of the malice he can muster. "Conniving, vindictive, greedy, witch. You're more or less the same at the end of the day, Gracie. You and Elizabeth, cut of the same cloth----" he cuts off as she delivers another blow. She tracks where his pale skin blushes red. She absently wonders if it will welt. Will it scar. And if so. Good. He laughs harshly, darkly, shuddering with it. "Only you were smart enough to want to wield power yourself. To dare use your brain. You're an abomination to the natural order," She lunges quickly, wrapping a hand around his throat and applying pressure, holding his gaze. He wheezes but cracks a smile.

"I like that about you. Love it even. You make your own waves, like me. I see myself in you sometimes dear. Maybe that's the only reason I'd dare say I love you."

She squeezes tighter for a moment, asking herself if she can do it, end him right here in their marital bed but releases him abruptly instead. He gasps and pants but his face is still flushed and a distracting tent in his trousers. She trails a hand lightly to caress it, drawing a low hiss of pleasure from his lips. He thrusts his hips, wanting. At her mercy.

"Call me wicked, Charles." she coaxes again, tone softer.

He is a monster, but is she any better? She has lain and made children with him. She stayed her hand just now from delivering him from this life. They have power and she revels in it…….his words wiggle in her ear. 'I see myself in you'

"You are wicked, Gracie. Wicked, hellfire and holy water in one. You are the mother of Wickedness, of Wicked Witches, my Horrible Queen."

She increases pressure and leans forward to fuse their mouths together. She moves her hands to untie his bond and feels his hands come about her with passionate fervour.

Forbidden. Wrong. Twisted.

"Wicked, wicked, _wicked,_ " he breathes as he rakes his teeth on the column of her throat, sucking her marks on her skin, down, down, stripping and shredding through her garments, trailing over abdomen and parting her thighs. "Wicked, evil thing."

Her back arches and breath leaves her, a hand tugging hard in his hair.

Yes. She concedes. I am. I am all of these things.

He makes her see stars, burning bright and lighting a fire that she knows will consume them both.

*

Dawn breaks and she can hear the sniffle stirring of their children in the next room. She turns to rise from the sheets but is caught by a solid grip on her wrist instead.

"Stay," his groggy voice drawls.

"The children." She tugs away persistently, dismayed when he springs forward and latches onto her again. She flops back down into the mattress and he chuckles behind her, his breath on her ear before burying his nose in the crook of her neck, inhaling deep.

"Mind me instead."

"Charles." Grace insists through gritted teeth. It unsettles her when he is this way, as if there is anything true between them. She thinks Charles uses her in some ways to make believe that she is the wife he would have had for love, were he not a man of ambition.

But he is, he was, he wrought his life upon it and profited on the labour of bodies like hers, and so…..he doesn't get that loving happy home he seems given to dream of now.

She chose to fight for freedom and her own power in this manner.

She doesn't get to pretend and enjoy it either.

"You're going to spoil Isaiah." He grumbles, reaching for her chin he turns her head towards him, holding her gaze. She inhales a breath.

There is one side effect, or advantage, depends on who you ask, to their kind being married and joined. Their magic bleeds, transfers, trickles over, drop by drop into one another.

It makes them stronger in some ways, yes, sure, but it also makes Grace more vulnerable than she likes. It means there are less secrets to keep. It means he can sometimes turn her gift of Sight on her, and look into her soul. Grace has been trying to school herself to hide the turmoil and conflicting thoughts in her heart. It means, though, however, that some of his Hearing, also bounces to her. It sharpens and makes the futures that she sees crisper, and more effective to read that what will be.

Should she be grateful that laying with Charles has expanded her power? Her stomach revolts to think that aside from the seed he plants in her belly---which have given her children she loves, make no mistake----but that some other part of the man lives in her constantly, sloshing and rushing through her veins alongside her own spells and capacities. What was it he'd said? _'I see myself in you'_

I don't want to be like Charles-----

He breaks into her thoughts when he speaks, considering her carefully. "I saw it in you last night," he murmurs. "The temptation to crush my wind pipes."

The blood rushes in her ears.

"And then you stayed your hand." He strokes his thumb on her chin, smiling softly still. "You know Gracie love I have every confidence, that you mean to kill me, one day."

"Charles---"

His eyes glimmer with knowing and her heart sinks. Has he read so deep to her soul? The dark things she plans. Sometimes even she is not sure if she will do it, but maybe he has leeched away enough of her magic to peer into her own future and see what she is capable of. She runs in his veins now too. They are twined.

"Ssssh." he soothes, stroking her cheek, petting her hair. "I know what I am, Gracie. I know what you've always thought of me. I won't fight you when you get the nerve to do it. I only ask, that when you take my life, let me be nestled between your thighs." He darts in then, stealing a kiss, gripping her face between his hands and plundering her mouth before he pulls away. "I'ma horrible man, but I'm a good husband to you, aren't I? Will you grant me that at least, dear wife?"

Skin heated and anger roiling through her she throws on a shift and a robe tying a tight efficient knot and glares at him before going through the door. " _You are not in a position to make bargains."_

His mocking laughter as she turns into the nursery strengthens her resolve.

* * *

 

Present

"Fight?" Lori repeats dumbly. "Excuse me but fight whom? The wars are over. There's not supposed to be anymore infighting, bloodshed and……"

"Destroying each other." August cuts in bluntly. "Besides which so many have woken from those old years, and since died, who's there to mount an attack now?"

"Who would dare!" Lori interjects, her voice rising in incredulous fury. "To wage war means breaking the Covenant-----"

"And all of the bindings and responsibilities and loyalties that have been woven into it." Henry replies stoically. "Mama knew." he sighs wearily.

Abe rests a hand on the mans shoulder that temporarily sags under the weight of things he's seen.

When the time began for Grace to start putting them all to rest, to end the constant feuding, he'd been tasked with being her watcher and guard for every few years. It is not the first time Henry has risen. He's the only one in all of Sleepy Hollow who could attest to waking and living over a period of spread out decades.

Such was his cycle. Wake and watch, for unrest, unease. A keen distant eye on the bloodline, no interaction warranted unless the perceived threat that Grace had spied rose as well……He has lived and slept some sporadic years, and thus the reason why he has managed to age yet survive so long. 

"Pardon, Henry?"

He sighs again. "Grace raised me, only mother I ever knew. My birth mother cheated on Charles…..your, great, great……grand something," he blusters on. "And when Elizabeth died, it was Grace who spared me Charles wrath……I wasn't his, you see."

Lori's mouth forms a round O and she at last settles into a chair beside August.

"I am indebted to her, and yours, for her saving my life." Henry explains. "So we are here to aid you. Those who aim to break the Covenant, will break our order. It willbe open chaos and fight for survival and whoever thrives can set themselves as the new head, and smite all who won't band together under their new laws."

Lori asks again, perplexed. "But why us, who, what would anyone want with us?"

"Mama, Grace," Henry corrects himself, "Told me, that the Covenant would be broken, or found new, on young blood of her line…….either by blood shed, or being raised above."

Lori feels the world fall out from under her. Young blood.

Awakened.

_Abbie._

"And you." Lori turns to Abe. "What's your role, your reason to be here?"

"I was spurned twice." He grins casually. "Grace has long subscribed to the old mantra, 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'"

The chair August sits in groans as he rises to his feet. "Well this is enough fear mongering for me today. You two better go and do a claim----what, you thought you would stay here? Keep dreaming."

The pair exchange a glance and stand. "Unfortunately, we do not have the foresight that Grace did, we are here only on her orders to defend and win, should her vision come true."

"Is there a chance it won't?" Lori asks.

Henry pauses, considering. "There is. It's possible things could get much much worse." With cordial nods the men exit the cabin and Lori watches them go, clenching a fist anxiously.

"What do you think August," she asks. "Do you believe them?"

Her friend harrumphs. "Hell no." he coughs. "Their purpose might be true, but the realities? Let them stand watch but I'm not worried Lor." he joins her at the door and pats her shoulder, giving it a gently squeeze. "You should head on home. See if Abbie's gotten in yet." Lips pursed Lori nods, giving him a swift parting embrace and starts down the path.

* * *

 

"Hey baby," Lori calls when she walks in the front door, she finds Abbie rooting around in the fridge for food. She emerges with a triumphant smile, withdrawing take out containers from the night before.

"Hey,"

"How you feeling?" she queries, throwing off her shawl and settling in at the table while Abbie reheats the food.

"Strange," she chuckles and then heaves a sigh. "I went out by the Manor."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, just, wanted to clear my head a little bit, you know. See if I'd….feel anything in particular."

"Besides a little fuzzy and fried?"

Abbie shakes her head ruefully. "Yeah. That would be nice."

Lori glances down at her hands on the table. She peers through her own skin down to bones and marrow and veins and vessels. She got a very deliberate, literal version of Sight. Some passed down strain from generation to generation. She can physically see what ails most. It'd made her an excellent physician. She watches the blood slowly trickling through her own hands, seeing little glimmering ruby sparks. That's her magic and some faint remnants of her late husbands.

Ezra had been so thoroughly spooked by his powers he had opted for straight pure regular humanity. She'd gotten only trickles of his briefly Awakened magic, could barely make sense of what it was meant to be, only that it had felt warm and heavy when it took its brief residence inside her.Because he'd never honed it, it never manifested in any way properly in her over the course of their marriage. And of course eventually it faded away to nothing. What lingers in her now, an unknown variable. She looks up as Abbie sets the plate in front of her and focuses her vision to look through Abbie, catching sight of the same, light, dancing sort of sparks kindling with the shimmering bright gold that's hers.

An unknown variable that has a chance to wake again in Abbie however it turns inside her.

"Mama,"

"Thanks Abbie."

"You seem distracted, everything okay?"

"Hmmm?"

"You were looking through me again weren't you, it tickles." she mock frowns and Lori laughs.

"I forgot you'll be able to feel things like that now."

"When you look at anyone like that their hair would stand on end," she jokes, sliding into her seat and tucking in.

"So, did it help?"

"Sorry?"

"Going by the Manor----"

"I----" Abbie opens her mouth and then falters. "It might have, but……." Married Ichabod Crane showed up and offered to mentor me. She huffs and shrugs. "It's just going to take getting used to."

"I'm here for you Abbie, August too,"

Abbie reaches across the table to grip her mothers hand and smiles. "I know Mama, I know."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To elaborate if it wasn't clear, powers get mixed up when people are sexually/romantically involved, MORE SO than just the mentorship bonding period that Ichabod had mentioned in the previous chapter.  
> It's possible that pairs powers could bleed over so much that they become master of not just one trait but two. (or manifest as something new) Twin flames in a magical sense so to speak. 
> 
> It'll get interesting because there will be aspects of themselves that could concievably be turned against them, like Charles using Grace's own Sight to see her desires and her future.


End file.
